The Fiery Aftermath: Fairendale, #5

By L.R. Patton

An army of dragons. A vital remembering. An unexpected attack.

 

The Weeping Woods has been all but destroyed by the fire of dragons. But still Maude and the children, who miraculously escaped from the dragon army that blocked them from the king's men, agree to venture inside and attempt yet another hiding place, this one without their beloved Arthur, who disappeared in the battle with the dragons. It has become quite hopeless, this hiding, but still they try. It is what the people of Fairendale do.

 

Meanwhile, Prince Virgil's heart becomes a battleground for light and dark, the dragons of Morad consider what it might mean to seek vengeance for an agreement that was violated, and the people of Fairendale, those who remain, are spurred by the burning of the woods to make a drastic move of their own—will they fight cruelty with cruelty, or will they exercise mercy on the very one who stole their children from their homes?

 

The Fiery Aftermath is the fifth book in Fairendale, a magical middle grade series that explores the world of fairy tales, dragons, wizards, and other magical creatures. The world of Fairendale revolves around villains and heroes—all on a quest for what they believe is right. But one cannot always know, at first glance, who is the villain and who is the hero. Throughout the series, the story of King Willis and his determination to keep the throne is woven into the story of his son, Prince Virgil, heir to the throne and friend to the village children, and the story of fairy tale children fleeing for their lives—children who become what we know as fairy tale villains, for one good reason or another.

 

But, remember, one cannot always know, at first glance, who is the villain and who is the hero.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Batlee Press
• Release date: Jun 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533786364

Book preview

Time

CORA STANDS IN THE middle of the village, staring at the houses around her, wondering how many of them are still inhabited and how many have been abandoned, now that she has begun making her plans, now that she has called the people to action, now that she has put the idea in their heads. She wonders how many of the village people are cowards, like her father was, how many of them must have stolen away in the dark of night so they will not have to join the dangerous quest to release the children, though the villagers are still only in the strengthening time of the plan and have quite some way to go before the attacking time. But they know what is coming. They have seen her plans, after all.

It is late afternoon, and not a soul has stepped from their houses, though there is plenty to see.

Cora looks up. Flames draw closer. She watches them leap toward the sky and then die back down. The woods have begun burning, those Weeping Woods that have not seen a burning like this one since King Sebastien stole Fairendale’s throne. She has heard of that burning in stories, the burning done by the dragons, after which all the trees magically lived and soon bore their green once more, but, for a time, wore their black like mourning rags. That is, in fact, why the woods are called the Weeping Woods. And now it is burning again. Because of dragons. It was said that the dragons did not remain in the land after the Great Battle, but Cora knows they did, for she knows many things others do not.

Cora feels a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Yes. She knows they remain.

In the case of dragons awakening, perhaps she will not be the only one to wage war against the castle. Perhaps the people of Fairendale will have the unlikeliest of allies—dragons that people have not seen for far too long.

The first time she saw a dragon was long ago, when she flew the sky wearing her second skin. No one could do transformation the way she could. Shape shifting was not the normal way of magic, of course. It was only the way of dark magic joining with the light, a magic gift bestowed on only a few at birth. She could control both. Not many could, which is why the realm was not said to be home to many shape shifters. She had done it often as a girl, but, alas, her daughter had not inherited the gift.

Perhaps Mercy would be alive now if she had.

Cora, when a girl, would soar over the dragon lands, but the dragons stayed well hidden from an untrained eye. She caught sight of one only once. Its eyes followed her movements, and she had wondered, momentarily, if dragons feasted on birds or whether she was too small a target to even bother with the chase. The dragon must have thought so, for he let her be, and she never ventured over the dragon lands again. They were too dangerous.

But perhaps the people will see dragons again. Perhaps the people will be able to live in harmony with the dragons, as they had done in King Brendon’s day. Perhaps she and the rest of the people can restore Fairendale to its former glory. She had never, in truth, seen the kingdom in its former glory, for she was not born in the days of King Brendon. But the stories tell of its beauty.

Cora hears a door open on one of the houses behind her. She turns. A man steps from it. The baker. She thought surely he had left, since she had seen no movement since the day she had called them all inside the secret underground chamber that lies beneath the village fountain and laid out her plans. Yet he is still here. He does not see her, though. His face is turned toward the woods.

Another door opens. An old woman emerges. She looks at Cora, and then she looks toward the woods. Another and another and another step from their homes, more than Cora thought possible, and they all stand in the streets with their faces toward the woods.

It burns at an alarming rate. The trees set off a great light, greater even than the day, for the sun is nowhere to be found. The heat curls over them and warms them better than their threadbare blankets. They are, perhaps, glad for this fire, for they do not have to shiver as they have done all night.

The people stand watching, in a silence that is heavier than the day’s sky. And then Cora says, Dragons, and the people look at her. They widen their eyes. She sees their fear. So she laughs. There is no need to be afraid, she says. They will not hurt us. Their quarrel is with the castle, not with us.

The people do not question how Cora might know something such as this. They would not believe her, of course, if she were to tell them. They would not believe that she had worn the feathers of a bird moments before she stood in the middle of the streets, for Cora has a magical child. Cora passed her magic on. Cora should have nothing left.

But what many people do not know about shape shifters is that their shape-shifting magic remains with them, though they can do no other magic. So it is that Cora, at the first sight of flame, donned her animal robe and took to the sky. She saw the great multitude of dragons. She saw the king’s men, fallen throughout the land. She saw the dead horses.

She did not, however, see any children.

The king’s men, it seems, crossed too far into the dragon lands. Cora feels the triumph warming her throat as the fire draws near enough to warm her face. The dragons will come for the king, if fortune remains on the side of the people.

And if the dragons do not come, the castle will be without its guard. It will be vulnerable. It will be all too easy to steal inside and release the children.

Cora turns to the villagers. People of Fairendale, she says. They look at her, their eyes no longer fearful. The king’s men have perished. She waves toward the flames, flickering closer. Because of the dragons. Once again, no one questions how she knows information like this. Cora has always been an outcast among the people, for she was known to have deep, dark magic back when she was a girl. And it is true that she passed that magic on to her daughter, and her daughter had no trouble making friends here. But let us not dwell on that. Let us see Cora, as she stands today, the wind flapping through her blood-red hair, whipping it about her face. She brushes it aside, so the people might see the glow of her green eyes.

A woman, you see, does not need friends to lead. She merely needs authority. And this woman’s words, her way of speaking, give her authority.

Cora smiles at all the people, who seem to have handed her their blind trust now. It was not always so. Perhaps it takes great tragedy to show people what needs doing. So there is some good that comes from evil. Perhaps one merely has to look in the right place to find the good.

What this means for us, Cora says, is that the castle is vulnerable.

The people murmur around her, as if understanding, now, what she means and what they must do. And then the baker, good man, grins at her. So what shall we do? he says, though it is plain to see that he knows.

We shall attack, Cora says. Tomorrow night.

And what of this night? a man from the back calls out. Will the king not be most vulnerable tonight?

Let the king feel his fear, Cora says. Let him feel his vulnerability. Let it shake his bones and keep him from his sleep. Cora breathes long and deep. And then we shall attack.

The people nod. She is respected now as their leader, for no one else took it upon themselves to do what she has done. They will do anything she says now.

Tonight, Cora tells them, we shall meet in the secret chamber, and we shall make our plans.

But what of the fire? a woman says. The people lift their eyes toward the blaze.

Cora stares at it, too. The fire did not touch the village last time. It will not touch it now. We need not worry, Cora says. It will give us warmth for a time. We must permit it. For she knows, dear reader, that there are colder days ahead.

So the people file back inside their houses to watch the burning from their windows, for the air outside is full of death and smoke and silence.

Cora remains in the street. She lifts her face to the sky, roiling with clouds that are not clouds at all, and lifts her hands to the warmth. The hot breath hits her face, and she remembers, now, the words that an old prophetess told her once upon a time. Fire, the prophetess had said, is sometimes needed to clear away unnecessary pieces and reveal what lies within.

So she watches the fire burn, unafraid of its wrath.

So, the great dragon Zorag says. He stands on top of a mountain, at the mouth of a cave. So there is you.

He is the only dragon on this mountain. Except for his cousin, that is, hanging about in the shadows where not even Zorag can see him. Blindell is his name. He is not nearly so massive at Zorag, for he is a young dragon, having lived only